« ПретходнаНастави »
SILENCE is only commendable
In a neat's tongue dried, and a maid not vendible.
Silence in love bewrays more woe
Than words, tho' ne'er so witty;
A beggar that is dumb you know,
May challenge double pity!-Sir W. Raleigh.
Silence! coeval with eternity!
Thou wert ere nature's self began to be;
Thine was the sway ere heaven was form'd on earth;
Ere fruitful thought conceiv'd creation's birth.
I have a silent sorrow here,
A grief I'll ne'er impart;
It breathes no sigh, it sheds no tear,
Yet it consumes my heart.
-And the poor wretch mov'd me
More by his silence, than a thousand outcries
Could have effected.
Perhaps she lingers in some old room,
Where wind never ruffles the ancient plume—
Where for many a year the moth and rust
Have reign'd supreme 'midst the gloomy dust-
The armour never reflecting a light
From the moonbeams pale, or the sunbeams bright;
Yea! the dusty armour and plume declare
That the Spirit of Silence dwelleth there.
F. G. Lee.
There is a silence which hath been no sound;
There is a silence which no sound may be-
In the cold grave.
She feels her inmost soul within her stir
With thoughts too wild and passionate to speak; Yet her full heart-its own interpreterTranslates itself in silence on her cheek. Mrs. Amelia B. Welby.
SIMONY. SIMILE. SIMPLICITY.
SUCH reverence in that age was right, 't is true, An age when faithful shepherds rul'd the flock; And if in these degen'rate days, the due
Is rarely paid, the fault is theirs who shock, By conduct foul; and, 'mid a servile crew
Of flatt'rers vain, for aggrandizement, look To simony, and schemes which now compel Those popes of ours e'en cures of souls to sell.
Full of protest, and oath, and big sound,
Let us make man in our image, man
In our similitude.
GIVE me a look, give me a face,
That makes simplicity a grace.
Robes loosely flowing, hair as free!
Such sweet neglect more taketh me,
Than all the adulteries of art;
That strike mine eyes but not my heart.
Fate some future bard shall join In sad similitude of grief to mine; Condemned whole years in absence to deplore The image charms he shall behold no more.-Pope.
I would walk
A weary journey, to the farthest verge
Of the big world, to kiss that good man's hand,
Who in the blaze of wisdom and of art,
Preserves a lowly mind; and to his God,
Feeling the sense of his own littleness,
Is as a child in meek simplicity.
H. K. White.
OUR compell'd sins
Stand more for number than for account.-Shakspere.
Our sins, like to our shadows,
When our day's in its glory, scarce appear;
Towards our evening, how great and monstrous!
Nor custom, nor example, nor vast numbers
Of such as do offend, make less the sin.
For each particular crime, a strict account will be ex-
acted; and that comfort which
The damned pretend, fellows in misery,
Takes nothing from their torments.
'Tis fearful building upon any sin;
One mischief enter'd, brings another in:
The second pulls a third, the third draws more,
And they for all the rest set ope the door:
Till custom take away the judging sense,
That to offend we think it no offence.
Sin is dark, and loves
The dark, still hiding from itself in gloom,
And in the darkest hell, is still itself
The darkest hell, and the severest woe.
Thus oft it haps that when within
They shrink at sense of secret sin,
A feather daunts the brave;
A fool's wild speech confounds the wise,
And proudest princes veil their eyes
Before the meanest slave.
The Scriptures show
That God does suffer for the sins of those
Whom He hath made, that are liable to sin;
In all of us He hath His agony.
Henry Taylor. Sin hath broke the world's sweet peace-unstrung The harmonious chords to which the angels sung.
BECAUSE I lie here at thy feet,
The humble booty of thy conquering eyes,
And lay my heart all open in thy sight,
And tell thee I am thine, and tell thee right;
And do not suit my looks, nor clothe my words
In other colours than my thoughts do wear,
But do thee right in all, thou scornest me,
As if thou didst not love sincerity.
Never did crystal more apparently
Present the colour it contain'd within,
Than have these eyes, these tears, this tongue of mine
Bewray'd my heart, and told how much I'm thine.
Sincerity's my chief delight,
The darling pleasure of my mind;
O that I could to her invite
All the race of human kind!
Take her, mortals, she's worth more
Than all your glory, all your fame,
Than all your glittering boasted store,
Than all the things that you can name.
She'll with her bring a joy divine,
All that's good, and all that's fine.
AND for thy vigour,
Bull-bearing Milo his addition yields
To sinewy Ajax.
The sinewy thread my brain lets fall,
Through every part
Can tie those parts, and make me one of all.
The feeling power, which is life's root, Through every living part itself doth shed By sinews, which extend from head to foot,
And like a net all o'er the body spread.-Davies.
ALAS! I know not what I have to say,
Yet I methinks could talk to you all day;
Tell you the mightiness of tyrant love,
And how I could from courts with you remove;
Could, like the humble lark, in my cold nest
Abroad all night in frosty meadows rest;
So I my vows to you, my star, might bring,
And every morning songs of sorrow sing.
Wherewith bestirs he human spirits?
Wherewith makes he the elements obey?
Is 't not the stream of song that out his bosom springs,
And to his heart the world back coiling brings?
'Tis not, I know, the chiming of a song,
Not all the powers that to the muse belong,
Words aptly cull'd, and meanings well express'd,
Can calm the sorrows of a wounded breast.
Sweet are the pleasures that to verse belong,
And doubly sweet a brotherhood in song.
No love is like a sister's love,
Unselfish, free, and pure,-
A flame that lighted from above,
Will guide but ne'er allure.
It knows no frown of jealous fear,
No blush of conscious guile;
Its wrongs are pardoned through a tear,
Its hopes crowned by a smile.
More constant than the evening star,
Which mildly beams above-
That diadem-O! dearer far
A sister's gentle love.